


The Science of Pure Genius

by chocolatemilk2



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, No Beta, Sherlock is using, Sherlock learns kung fu, WIP, microscopes are the bomb, sibling relationships via impersonal means, they go on a cruise for some reason, un brit-picked, uni nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:35:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemilk2/pseuds/chocolatemilk2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John takes a younger Sherlock under his wing-- they hook up. But will John be able to deal with Sherlock's extra shit? Does Sherlock want him to?</p><p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Pure Genius

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't finished this chapter yet, much apologies.

Afghanistan broke his body, but John Watson never let it break his spirit.

Even after he was chewed up and spat out back where he came from, hardly a hero or any help to anyone, he smiled. John woke up to the thundering of bad pipes at eight hundred hours each morning and the mould stench of his carpet, and he pulled faces in the bathroom mirror until life was normal enough to make his nightmares feel ridiculous.

He'd been in the sand so long he was happy to feel the rain again, even though it made him cold. It always rained in London but the water never chafed his skin.

John had an uncanny sense of de ja vu being back here now, out of the army and out of the hospital; his childhood and teenagerdom here he couldn't help but think of as a pretty prelude to battle, a picturesque ideal of what was at risk. An in-between place between mission assignments. He knew like he should be nothing but glad to be back, but it felt fake, somehow. A reward for failure. Like a happy ending before the princess was saved.

John hadn't seen Harry in ten years, and it still made him start to remember she wasn't away now. They'd already said their goodbyes, and it was surreal to say hello again, to come round and find her swearing at him through a haze of drugs at the hospital for getting himself shot. Hungover, her long brown hair trailing in his cold soup.

And now he had a tiny flat and couldn't afford rent and worked overtime and double shifts planned to fill in for whoever he could. Just a week ago he'd been given a clean bill of health and thirteen days before that he was on the plane. Everything had happened so fast; he blinked and his life changed completely.

It was about to change again.

His phone made a wailing alarm sound instead of its usual blip. Unfortunately, Sherlock was still close enough to read the text. /There's no shame in seeking help when necessary. You don't truly want to be sent back to rehab, do you? MH./

Sherlock didn't need a doctor. He didn't need a healer or a therapist or whatever god-awful watchperson figure Mycroft bestowed on him.

/I'm fine. Go blow up Iran or whatever it is that you do. SH/

/Fast reply there-- still 'looking for work' I see. Either get your own doctor or take the one I give you, because my reputation won't stand for this lasting inebriation of yours. MH./

Interfering as always. And Sherlock had been building up a text-free streak, too. Mycroft was even worse than mother, trying to set him up with vapid psychologists all the time. (Then getting them to diagnose him sociopathic behind his back.)

You'd have thought the man'd have realized that getting him to obey his orders was pointless as Sherlock would go against them anyway. And telling someone not to do something they hadn't intended to do anyway was terrible reverse psychology. His brother was using the health issue as an opening to comment on Sherlock's unemployment, easy. Stupid work fiend. Didn't he see Sherlock had spores to analyse?

A knock at the door. "No."

A more persistent knock. "If you insist on heralding me, say what you must and get out."

"Mr. Holmes, this laboratory is booked for usage at one. And as a certified graduate with no further plans for study here, our needs are markedly greater than yours."

"Lie: it's booked for two. You're carrying a manila folder with your lecture notes for the lesson but you didn't bring your keys to unlock the door despite being unaware of its state of lock. You despise lateness evident in yourself and others as by the glares you give your students and the thin set of your mouth on the rare occasions you are, so on principle you wouldn't have forgot your keys if you actually had a class. Punctuality definitely is a value for you past the polite precedence because time is methodical, and good time management is essential for proper experimentation. Both of your Mastery projects involved it readily in fact. Why two? Because the New Year roster has changed with added class numbers in chemistry, which have pushed your lessons back. You're bitter about it, so you thought you'd arrive early and kick out the sophomores who haven't got their timetables yet to feel better."

"Correct. Furthermore, my needs are greater than your own. So get out."

Sherlock was fully ready to argue the point, but at that moment he identified the germination difference between the first seed and the second, meaning the lab had no further use to him.

"For the record, your cleaning staff do in fact keep the door locked. I just like to pick it."

And with that overly-defensive and probably not as cutting as he hoped remark, Sherlock swept out of the lab and down the hallway. Students brushed into him either side as class sessions ended, and his elbow began to itch absently. When he refused to scratch it for crowd navigation sake, it stepped up to a burn.

"Damnit," he cursed to himself (people everywhere, no exit visible) and promptly broke up to a jog for the fire exit across the block. Finally, alone. And no one to disturb him. One of his needles was still stashed behind the fire extinguisher case from last year and Sherlock swore as he sunk it in and it came up empty.

He had a brief flash of concern that someone infected might have used the rest of his coke and dirtied the needle now inside him, before he realized he'd just used it himself and deleted what happened after it. Idiot, idiot.

The craving was still sudden, searing a yearning deep-set in his bones and Sherlock realized he'd have to find someone new to sell him on campus since Michaels had dropped out and Moran suspected...

Shit. How was he ever meant to get back on it with Mycroft checking at every avenue that he was clean? Not to mention rehab. He couldn't stand another discovery and kidnap to that boring, sterile place. He'd be even more in Mycroft's debt for letting him get away with the bribes or blackmail and ugh. It was like he had a keeper.

Maybe he did need a doctor, Sherlock realized, if only to get Mycroft off his back. Everyone would be very happy he was clean sailing and Molly would stop sending him pictures of victims of overdose victims as email attachments.

Sherlock settled to get to the doctors that day, once Seymour Letts kicked him out for keeping human testicles in the mini fridge.

In the end it would irritate Mycroft the most to have all his plants evaded because Sherlock moved to a new neighbourhood.

The end of the day, and no small favour either. John hummed to himself as he switched off his computer and flicked the lights to the hallway, enjoying the crisp darkness it created.

And Sarah sounded like she was being verbally assaulted by a patient in the waiting room. Great.

"Diagnose me," the attractive man demanded, leaning across the desk with his arms crossed determinately. Young man, John amended a beat later, because although he was tall he wouldn't pass for twenty-five.

"You look young, fit and attentive and our viewing hours are currently over. If you'd like to book an appointment for tomorrow--"

"Dull," he interrupted.

John cleared his throat. "Problem?" he asked pointedly, flicking his gaze towards the brunette. The young man 's eyes narrowed at what really wasn't a threat so much as a general inquiry, and he moved forwards a notch from the desk edge.

"Indeed," the younger man replied. Long coat, thin face, why did he have to look that tall when John was the older one in their situation. "You see, Sarah here refuses unpaid work, but I have no money to spend and no time to waste. All I need is a referral but she won't take the old fake number under the keyboard routine."

A difficult one. Great. John, contain sigh. "Well why don't you have a sit down, and I'll see what I can get you. Sarah, you want a rain check on that dinner?"

"I won't wait forever, Doctor Watson," Sarah chided teasingly (god he hoped not) and collected her handbag.

"Well, what seems to be the--"

"Actual problem? That I can't get my wayward brother off my back. To you, probably, that I have a tormentful cocaine habit that keeps me up at night. Fatigue and dizziness from withdrawal means I can't keep meat down. I've always been slightly anaemic so I need you to prescribe me some iron supplements."

"You can get iron supplements from the chemist without a prescription," John said, feeling slightly needled. This man... Sarah had outright flinched when he'd snapped 'cocaine habit'. John wondered if it'd be too dangerous to comment that the man was a bit thin and he should probably eat more of things that weren't meat as well.

"They're unpalatable. And no, I am not anorexic if you're wondering."

John's gaze snapped up from the man's ribs. "I'm sorry; I don't think I caught your name?" He scrawled out a quick persistence with the spare prescription paper Sarah kept in the cabinet.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Different. It suited.

John gave him the forms, opened the door, and locked up the clinic. Home time, finally. He felt like a schoolboy again.

Sherlock was still standing there, unmoving.

"Are you right to get home?" John asked, because he looked awful, awful young.

"No," said Sherlock. "But you're not offering. You don't own your own vehicle and you wouldn't share a room with someone you just met at work."

Well, Sarah seemed the obvious case against. The especially me went unspoken. Poor kid. Must get a lot of nick.

"How did you figure that?"

"You have a car park beside your practice, there for emergencies, but mostly just used by staff. There's an extra space you could fit a large car in, but it hasn't been taken, meaning you don't have a car or you would've parked it there. Possibility is the space was there and you didn't see it, but seeing as this is a main road and all the other spots are paid parking, it's unlikely you wouldn't have moved your car once you found the space empty. I'm assuming the other cars aren't yours because of one, expense-- the grey evidently belongs to a specialist, probably visiting, maybe out for dinner and two, a visitor-- the blue colour, jag make, obviously female. Not Sarah's."

John found it slightly funny that Sherlock insisted on calling her Sarah despite their disagreement. Brownie points. "Do you want to come over anyway?"

Sherlock started, and glanced back quickly. "Why would you want anything like that?" he drawled. Mocking him? No, protecting himself.

"Well, you did just admit you don't have a place to say. Can't have you presume everything correctly."

"Oh," replied Sherlock, then; "why not?"

John grinned. "Sometimes life's just got to be a little unpredictable."

They caught the tube to John's place; he paid. Sherlock's frown became deeper and deeper set as they approached their destination, and finally reach the squalid flat.

"You should stop punishing yourself for your war injury. Basic assistance is not overthanks for a life of altruism." Sherlock gritted his teeth when he realized he just rephrased Mycroft. Drat. He hates agreeing with his brother's worldview. In any case, Sherlock is not an ounce sanctimonious and Mycroft doesn't deserve it.

John jumped a little, turning to face Sherlock with a shocked look on his face. Suspicious. "How do you know about the war? Or about me, for that matter?"

"Easy. Your posture; abnormally straight, speaks to conditioning. Voice and phrasing says military-- in conflict, you do not skirt around problems, like the patient outside of your work time. Hard tan lines around neck, too high and sharp to be a tanning bed, you've been abroad. Close cropped haircut hasn't completely grown out yet so you've been on active duty recently. Paranoia means you constantly second guess my behaviour as done, and let Sarah off until Monday when she would've waited the four minutes for you to be finished with me, because you suspected I might be a big problem and didn't want her to be around to deal with it. Self-sacrificing, profession agrees. So released from duty on the basis of accident. You've got an insuffient pension because the government is cheap and you don't ask for help from your family out of what, pride? Concern? Already ashamed you were wounded, don't want to seem incompetent. Slight bulge to the right side of your torso not completely flattened by your jumper, bandages haven't come off yet. Could be a number of other things, but there's a centimetre of gauze poking out of your undershirt and no it's not noticeable. Limp and cane indicates a second injury-- but an older one, something you're resigned to, since you didn't ask for help out of your seat when the train arrived. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. "That," he started, and his face slowly lit up, "was amazing."

Qualitative, immeasurable, subjective, imprecise. Surely not warranted?

"Evasion," Sherlock declared.

"Afghanistan," John replied. Undefensively, sincere, as if he would've told Sherlock anyway but the evaluation took precedence... Strange and intriguing. Sherlock really did need to stop misjudging John.

The doctor unlocked his door, and gestured inside, Sherlock followed before he had a chance to be invited inside. Then he realized that he wouldn't have needed to stride as John wouldn't use his hospitality as a weapon of moral high ground except in emergency. Then again, perhaps Sherlock shouldn't let his guard down. This man was a killer.

"You want some tea? A snack? I'm afraid there's not much to eat if you haven't had dinner, but we could always go out and order something."

"Unnecessary," said Sherlock. He was examining the electrical orifices behind the television and determining exactly how long it would take before they became a safety hazard due to water leakage. Three days. "I don't require sustenance."

John threw an amused glance his way. "What are you, a robot?"

"Already ate," Sherlock said huffily. He didn't like ridicule. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"Depends how you feel about some soup. I am a doctor, you know." John said it very kindly, as if Sherlock were sensitive or some other nonsense. Bad judge of character. Well, Tchaikovsky would show him.

"This matchbox flat will drive you crazy in the long run, and a flat share is cheaper. I'm also in the market for living accommodations. Meet me at 221 B Baker Street tomorrow morning at nine as I will be gone by the time you awake. The landlady may with any luck give us a cheap deal. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go sleep on your rickety single bed since I trust you won't make me sleep on the couch."

Sherlock felt John's stare following him.

"I'll bring you some soup," the doctor settled on saying.

Sherlock found himself once again in the laboratory that morning, comparing slides of blood tissue samples.

/You spend an awful lot of time at that dratted university, brother dear. One would think you weren't ashamed. MH./

Ahh, yes. Sherlock had opted out of Cambridge and Imperial to get a rise out of mother. Slightly regretted it. Slightly (not the getting a rise out of part).

"You again," griped the lab professor as he entered. "Have you ever considered doing anything nice for anyone ever?"

"I do a lot of nice things for myself," ahh yes, and that was just where the infection spread. Beautiful patterning, a nice writhing bundle of broken nerves. "Must be off now. Coincidental, though you won't believe it. Rest assured if I actually disliked you I would take the extra three minutes packing up to watch you squirm."

Strided through the familiar hallway. /It has strong microscopes. Also, you spend a lot of time texting me. SH/

/Forgive me for being curious as to why my men reported you sleeping in a strange doctor's house. MH./

/Kindly piss off. SH/

The appeal have you considered doing anything nice for anyone ever remained at the forefront of his mind despite Sherlock's strong urge to lock it in the dungeon of his mind palace with the other problems anyone ever had with him. He just couldn't stop thinking about the strangeness of John and how weird Sherlock was, at least according to everyone else. There were things he had rabid, fanatical interests in but nothing that lasted long enough once his need for information was satisfied. He'd always paid an interest in the happenings of everyone else as a sort of social study for how much he could get away with (and how much to reign in) but he spent so much of his time bored because nothing was appealing and all the solutions were so obvious. Uni had been good for keeping his mind occupied as far as to further revel in the ugly secrets of the world, but now it was over and his life lacked direction.

He spent the actual morning moving in and absently scribbling inflectional possibilities in words on his blog and if he postponed the order of a human head from Molly in the morgue, that was also a coincidence.

Sherlock took great satisfaction in deleting Mycroft's snide replies from his comment section.

John arrived exactly on time. There was that strange nervousness which came with wanting to please someone you were beginning to greatly admire but he put his foot down and told himself, alright Watson, you're not letting him walk all over you like your previous girlfriends because of it. This guy is overbearing and if he thinks he can get away with making you sleep on the couch every night he will.

Then John mentally kicked himself for the double-entendre and for comparing the man to his girlfriends. Sherlock probably wasn't even gay, John wasn't even gay, he was glad Mike was there to tell him the guy's name when they ran into each other this morning. Weren't that many opportunities for saves like that on times before appointments. 'I'm sorry, I know we rode the tube together and you slept in my bed last night, but what was your name again?'

John was such a creep. He'd tried not to smell his bed sheets that morning, but curiosity wan out. Sherlock had a very nice scent, all rich and cool like pine leaves. Where was he, anyway? If this was all some joke...

"Oh good," Sherlock said as he opened the door. "I was just checking the flat out."

Sherlock gave him a rundown of it, its rent and neighbours and architectural history.

"There's a lot of junk in here," John observed in entry. Sherlock glared and John realized it was his junk. "A human skull? Really?" said John who, being in the medical profession recognized actual bone when he saw it.

"Ahh, that's Mr Hudson. Our landlady let me keep it as a momento."

Was that supposed to be a joke? Should he laugh? God, he wasn't sure he could deal with two eccentrics day-to-day.

"So quick to presume," said John, who actually found that a bit creepy thank you. He'd picked up on the 'our'.

"I'll stop presuming if you start deciding." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, daringly. John always wished he had the fine motor control to operate those muscles independently. It looked badass.

"Umm, I'll uhh, have a think about it," John said, feeling suddenly unmistakably turned on. It was something in the way Sherlock was staring him down, attention completely absorbed, his light eyes cutting. Still, apart from those jewels jerking from one part of his face to another.

There had to be blood rushing to his cheeks. Could Sherlock tell? His own poker face gave nothing away. In fact the young man seemed to have mastered the art of appearing totally inscrutable. Oh god, he couldn't live with a sharp person he was attracted to. It was mad.

"Fine," said Sherlock in a mild tone. He whirled around and strode to a lounge chair where he busied himself with the task of writing in code. John mentally replaced 'sharp person' with 'computer genius'.

Maybe the man was a hacker? Could you be a professional IT person from home that young?

Either way, John really needed to get off.

The infamous Mrs Hudson cornered him on the way out, and while to John's relief she seemed to be a perfectly nice old lady ("I don't expect you to stay too long dear, that one comes across as a bit of a handful,") and not a retiring axe murderer no he would not care for a cup of tea right now he had to be going. Things to take care of, you know. Another handful, John thought of saying in a flight of immaturity.

He spent the entire tube ride picturing Mrs Hudson naked and the probably horrified look on Sherlock's face if he ever realized John's mild attraction to him. God, you'd think the guy would be used to it by now though, he looked like Jesus's personal pornstar. But then what did John know. Sherlock didn't seem very typical.

John got home and he heard the neighbours to the side making an obnoxious racket the minute he stepped in-- over another bloody reality show. He frowned as the TV refused to work, the kitchen cupboard doors were stuck closed, and as he lay on his bed not sleeping. The urge to wank had passed now in this sad room, but he could still feel those piercing light green eyes digging into him like emeralds or malachite or something razor-edged in that sidelong look, his elegant profile. Drip, drip, drip, came a noise from an indeterminable place outside. John opened his window and found it from the overhead mantle. Unbuckatable.

This was his day off, wasn't it?

The doctor sighed, showered, and packed his things. He was straight anyway; he didn't know what he was doing fantasizing about this odd bloke he ran into. A potential flatmate. Maybe this was a sign he'd spent too long in Afghanistan, too long dampening down emotions he didn't understand. Too long a dry spell if his libido was lusting after the first easy thing it caught onto and a guy for god's bloody sake. It'd been a long time since he'd been laid-- it'd been a long time since he was home.

Once he was done and settled in the new place, he'd go to some anonymous bar and pick up a nice girl and get distracted by her. Or Sarah, or something.

New landline, he texted Harry. Don't call me.

And so he left a note on his landlord's back table.

Once again, the good doctor Watson asked himself what the hell he was doing here. Sure the place was closer to his work, but snap decisions like this? Moving, not caring? It wasn't like him to be fickle.

Sherlock was playing Handel, loudly-- probably revenge for the 'I'll think about it,' comment. A man like Sherlock probably didn't like to be undervalued. Somehow he knew Watson had been forced to sit through several play throughs of Messiah all his childhood and hated to be reminded of forced religious values again.

Still, it sounded amazing and John had to add musical genius, to the list of deductive and computer genius. He opened up his own laptop and thought about writing on his blog then realized there probably wasn't free Wi-Fi, then that there were four unsecured channels out of nine in the area. Did he use them? Did he go out and buy one of those cute Optus USB things? Decisions, decisions.

He couldn't very well ask Sherlock who was playing his pretty red heart out over near the TV stand, or what to do with the extra toaster of the few of John's possessions he couldn't be rid of. Sticky process, moving houses. He was just glad he'd only been there a few nights-- just out of the hospital and hotel he hadn't accumulated many appliances he couldn't be rid of.

Oh well, they had two toasters now. A shiny cream one and his per functionary stainless steel four-at-a-time-er. He hadn't ever needed to use the four functions before, but maybe Sherlock would get over his stick insect thinness to enjoy an abundance of ready-cooked slices.

"Sherlock, are there eyes in this toaster grill?" John suddenly demanded, and Sherlock's playing suddenly cut short.

"Ahh yes," he said, and sprung to John's side. "I was concerned with the aesthetic appeal of a grill pattern on various bodily appendages, due to tattooing. People tattoo other peoples' eyes occasionally, though I admit I didn't think you'd have a meticulous interest in the bottom contents of this electrical appliance just yet." Was why it'd been shoved in the back corner? "Did you know if you turn a toaster sideways you can make grilled cheese?"

"Whose eyes?" John demanded, determined not to be side-tracked.

"You're spooked, seriously considering moving out from here should I not provide adequate explanation," Sherlock observed.

With reason. "Why are they in a toaster and not in someone's eye sockets?" John said.

"Deceased. My ally at the morgue helped me out, he donated his body to science."

"Do I look gullible to you?" John laughed. "Usually when people give their body to the great unknown this doesn't actually happen."

"The morgue is St Bart's hospital at Smithfield, and my accomplice’s name is Molly Hooper. She works shifts from ten until five, I like to catch her on her 1:15 lunch break in the cafeteria without a visitor's tag. The bodies are delivered via an automated van system and if I bat my eyelashes extra hard the reports say certain appendages were removed post-mortem. Its use is the corpse monitoring system is not concise enough to form a direct relation between tissue and organs taken by operators preceding or succeeding delivery-- that one of her staff is really bad at his job."

Sherlock's tone said he was willing to go on. "Yes yes, I believe you," John admitted, and his brow knitted. "It's very good. But what's the point? All that effort for a bunch of patterned scorch marks?"

"Science. If you know how the human body reacts to one set of stimulus, you can ascern how that might create another. I find track marks and motivations very interesting."

"So some poor bugger out there's giving up his peepers so you can become a little bit more knowledgeable?" John asked. "Must be rolling in his grave at that one."

"Unlikely. Lifeless objects typically remain stationary," Sherlock replied, and threw himself down on the couch. John got the feeling he'd be pacing the corridors before night's end.

John started to get a creepy feeling he was being watched by a dead person staring into the bottom of the kitchen appliance and went back to unpacking.

Sherlock got bashed the next day.

John wasn't all that surprised to tell the truth, what with the way Sherlock had been jumping between past times the night before full of frenetic, anxious, restrained, frantic energy. And with Sherlock's drug habit. But he was surprised to feel the slight twinge in his heart at the sight; Sherlock's lower lip bloated and torn, red splotches along his arms that would later bruise, shaky hands from shock, not adrenaline.

"Come here," John murmured and assessed him like the doctor he was-- held his face between his hands, read the focus and dilation of the pupils, depth of the wound, effect of light in his eyes with the slight tilt of his jaw to the window.

"I don't have a concussion," Sherlock snapped, stepping away from John and readjusting the collar of his coat. His breath rattled, he couldn't contain a small cough.

"Cracked rib, I'll give you some of my shoulder medicine. That tear in your lip is going to need stitches too." He reached for the first aid kit he'd packed into the cabinet. "The landlady might sew up the rip in your coat if you ask nicely enough."

"Not going to ask what happened?" said Sherlock. His voice cracked a little around happened.

"I've been a doctor for long enough not to need to want to." An army doctor, a little voice in his head corrected in a shriek. Sherlock could figure the difference though, he was a smart guy. "Why, should I?"

"It was stupid," Sherlock admitted. "My fault."

"Yeah, well, everyone invites trouble," John said. "Next time, bring me along with you."

And that was the end of that. John made them both some chicken noodle soup and they sat on the couch and took their meds and watched bad telly. John sewed up Sherlock's lip amidst much complaint Sherlock could do it himself, and then Sherlock typed out a long blog post defining the various crap elements of the 'See How They Run' miniseries. There were a lot. John didn't think this show still aired and Sherlock kept stealing the blanket. John supposed Sherlock needed it more, but he didn't give up the pretence of opposition until Sherlock was soundly asleep and curled up in a little ball (on his non-hurt rib side).

They didn't talk about the fighting for the rest of the night, and John wrinkled his nose as he passed the decomposing eyeballs to wash their mugs up in their sink.

John took until nine to brush his teeth and shave and iron his work shirt to crisp perfection, because he was looking for the lid to the milk bottle (how did you lose something that quick? how). John swore he never saw Sherlock get up from the lounge chair with his laptop once but the deducer managed to better groom his appearance faster in that time than John in an entire hour, looking entirely unconcerned about it all the more.

"So I guess you don't have a day job?" huffed John, checking his watch. Yes, very assuredly late.

Sherlock glared at a link on his desktop. "Obvious."

"Oh good, you can clean up the mess I just made. I'll see you in the afternoon if you're in."

The day went bad from there. John got lectured by his new boss about giving free lollies to the kids with appendicitis and saving files with bad grammar, and Sarah told him she had a boyfriend who was a kick boxer.

So not only could John not proposition Sarah for fear of being kung fu'd to death, but he couldn't attempt to say the words 'such as' or 'that is' in his explanation of rage in fear of being redundant. When he tried to write, 'this situation is having a bad effect on me,' as a note to give to Sally, PhD. Derlon overlooked with the keen gaze of someone ready to screech at him for using the wrong homonym.

"No 'A'!" she cawed into his computer screen. "And what you need are some earplugs and stress balls, not is!"

By the time John got home, not only was he feeling insecure about his medical proficience and use of the word got, but his sex appeal and inherent charisma.

"And it's all the same thing over and over," he grumbled to Mrs Hudson at the doorway. "She's turning me into some stumbling, self-conscious moron. Honestly I would of killed her by now if she weren't my boss."

"Would have," the old woman corrected, patting his collar down.

Oh well, at least his crazy smart roommate Sherlock wasn't home yet to analyse it. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock... if asked John would say he kept repeating the name so he didn't forget it, but he actually just liked the way the conjoint syllables sounded.

And great. The man didn't clean up after all. If anything he seemed to have made more mess. Was that a bookshelf fallen from the side wall? God, he had the whole day to himself, what else did he have to do?

Cursing, John pushed the bookshelf back up (wincing as his shoulder seared), both hands hauling the grand big oak thing onto its legs.

John realized his own mistake when he stepped forward to even the weight balance out and his bad lag suddenly gave without his cane.

Nothing like being crushed like a bookshelf to top off a perfectly trying day, he thought.

"Heaven compared to the war," John told Sherlock from that weird angle when the genius finally returned at eight o'clock at night (three and a half hours later).

"I don't doubt it," said the freelance unemployed useless whatever he was, and left him there.

Tuesday more of the same. Sunny mood, bright white sky, Sherlock looking like he were about to break an ankle running up the walls too fast. Metaphorically speaking. John almost dropped the frypan when he saw Sherlock actually run up the wall to grasp the... spear... in... target practice?

"You do realize the landlady is going to fine for that, don't you," said John once he got past the odd site of an incredibly tall person back flipping off a wall with a spear. Ha, he could play unflappable too. "As I doctor I must point out that endeavour and concurrent manoeuvre is pointlessly dangerous."

"Just recklessly," said Sherlock. "There is a point to it."

"One I fail to see," rebutted John, flipping the bacon. "Is this what you do in your free time? Wreck stuff?"

Sherlock shot him what John was quickly coming to find a common exasperated look. "Spare me the disapproval. Engaging in conventional occupation would be far more hazardous to the world than a few sharp-tipped broomsticks."

"It'd save you time, though."

Ahh yes, the glare.

"Why don't you become a violinist?" John suggested. "You're good at that."

"Insipid, it'd be a waste of me intellectually, slaving after dull concertos and endless whole notes. Someone else's compositions day after day? They'd have to be Mozart."

Well, someone was arrogant about his abilities. John dropped the attempt. "What about a psychic? If you're half as good as reading other people as you are me there won't be a problem. You can wreck stuff and pretend you're having a vision, I can give you some of Harry's old scarves.."

"Don't mock me," said Sherlock, wearing either a grievously offended or shamefully amused expression. "Besides, lies are labour some. The truth is far more pure and interesting."

Is that why you cut me short yesterday, John wondered, but decided not to say anything. "Must be off," he decided. "Don't kill anyone else while I'm gone."

"Those eyes were accredited!" Sherlock called after him.

The next day, an anonymous benefactor supplied Sherlock and he with two free tickets on a cruise.

"What a pity," Sherlock said, "booked by the name. Looks like you won't be able to go to work tomorrow."

Big cruise liner, the SS. Anne. Ridiculously pricey. "I told you not to kill anyone," John replied, pleased and concerned at the same time.

"Blackmail," stressed Sherlock.

They went on the damn cruise.

"For an army man, you're awfully admittant," noted Sherlock, while they were waiting in line. John had just said something open and raw about whatever it was about traveling (read: leaving London), and now Sherlock was taking the piss out of him.

"For a young person, you're awfully uptight."

And did Sherlock know it. He almost seemed to take undue pride in his stuffy coat and pretentiously styled hair and microscopes.

Having noticed and deducted said character fault upon observing Sherlock intensely, John set about marginally improving Sherlock's quality of life in this area without letting the other man realize his feelings for him.

Being a doctor, he refused drink spiking on principle. But who was against some good old fashioned bongo dancing?

Apparently, Sherlock was.

Drat it.

Even by the time John had returned home and explored many avenues of getting Sherlock to loosen up and enjoy life (swimming, candle meditation, free food) he had yet to find a cure for the no job-induced boredom anxiety or for the man's general prattiness.

"You could be more relatable," grouched John, who had just received a lecture for his friend's intolerableness. "Or nice."

"What, like an open target?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow (damn him!). It shortly fell. "I don't do nice."

"Sherlock, no one cares about your image here except you."

"Harsh words from a doctor. Who says it's about image?"

"You could at least let them down gently."

"The truth hurts." Sherlock sniffed his chill away, or maybe John's opinions. "It's enough that I tell them. They should thank me."

"Sherlock Holmes, national hero. You told the woman her only son was gay."

"There's nothing wrong with being gay."

Shit, personal territory. "You and I both know she didn't think that."

"Not my problem. If you don't mind, justifying myself wears. I may just head out to kill some puppies now. Don't wait up, never know when I might need to change to suit your precious ideals."

"Maybe you should go become a judge since you value hard truth so much. Destroy people good and properly instead of behind a smile. Oh there's an idea, why don't you rule the whole world actually since you seem to know better than everyone inside it."

"Excuse me if I'm sick of playing your pet case, Watson. But I won't atone for Afghanistan for you. Goodbye."

Half way through his work-day, John broke the post-fight silence to inquire via text, did you really do a backwards somersault with a cracked rib? Pride or no, as a doctor he simply could not let that pass. It was terrible, that he'd managed to forget about it.


End file.
